


Riding Devil's Slide

by ElDiablito_SF



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Professor!Cas, bartender!Dean, bottom!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:18:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2240439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pitter-patter of rain against the window lulls Dean as he mixes his latest drink.  It’s another slow night, which isn’t unusual in the Dogpatch.  San Francisco might have become overrun by high tech douchebags who like to make it rain seven days a week, but The Velvet Ramp (a pretentious-ass name, but you gotta keep up with the neighbors) where Dean’s been working lately hasn’t gotten overrun yet with either the nouveaux-douche nor the Marina girls looking for a new place to “slum it.”  Nevertheless, it is just another place in the city where you can get artisan cocktails, so the vest he’s wearing is as de rigeur as the home-made 200% organic maraschino cherries and pickled onions.  (Don’t knock the onion martini till you’ve tried it.)  If you had told him five years ago he’d be working in a place with a dress code that included a vest (and the occasional fedora), he would’ve laughed you right out of the bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Riding Devil's Slide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lemonsorbae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsorbae/gifts).



> Happy belated birthday, Fea! I owed you since you've become part of my support system without ever volunteering for said task - and you are wonderful! So my breaking out of my writer's block is dedicated to you.

The pitter-patter of rain against the window lulls Dean as he mixes his latest drink. It’s another slow night, which isn’t unusual in the Dogpatch. San Francisco might have become overrun by high tech douchebags who like to make it rain seven days a week, but The Velvet Ramp (a pretentious-ass name, but you gotta keep up with the neighbors) where Dean’s been working lately hasn’t gotten overrun yet with either the nouveaux-douche nor the Marina girls looking for a new place to “slum it.” Nevertheless, it is just another place in the city where you can get artisan cocktails, so the vest he’s wearing is as de rigeur as the home-made 200% organic maraschino cherries and pickled onions. (Don’t knock the onion martini till you’ve tried it.) If you had told him five years ago he’d be working in a place with a dress code that included a vest (and the occasional fedora), he would’ve laughed you right out of the bar. 

But the money’s good here, and he really can’t object to the clientele. Like tan trenchcoat over there, swyping angrily on his Droid, his brows forming deep lines in his forehead as he scowls at the little, bright screen. Were it not for the incongruity of that compact piece of technology, the entire scene (the dude’s coat, Dean’s fedora, Billy Holliday crooning softly from the speakers behind Dean, the ceaseless heavy drops of rain against the window) could be entirely noir. They needed the rain - it’s been a dry year in California, to say the least, and as much as Dean grumbled about the San Francisco fog, he had to admit he had started to miss his peacoats. Global warming was a bitch. Made his brain feel all cooked, like a sunny-side egg, this unseasonably arid heat. Gave you ideas, unprofessional ones, such as how the trenchcoat dude’s hands looked practically well-manicured, especially compared to Dean’s own hands (all hang nails and calluses).

So then, “What can I get you?” Dean asks, tearing his eyes away from the newcomer’s hands and focusing on his face - his obnoxiously attractive face. Pretty boys don’t come to The Velvet Ramp that often. The man looks up, eyes wide as if he’s just a puppy who wandered into the local drinkery completely unawares (and Dean is beginning to think maybe he did), slowly focuses on Dean’s face and lets his mouth fall open. His lips are chapped, which strangely makes Dean want to reach out and run the pad of his thumb across them, just to see if they’d feel as dry as they look.

“What do you recommend?” the customer finally speaks and Dean feels the tension drain out of his back. This part he can do. 

“The drink called ‘67 Impala is my specialty, if you like bitters.”

“Bitters,” the man repeats, eyes narrowing, as if Dean is speaking Martian at him. Clearly, the guy isn’t from around here.

“You new to the city?” Dean asks, already knowing the answer to the question, but smiling nevertheless at the confirmatory nod from his bewildered customer.

“I just started at the University,” the man nods to the left, in the direction where if you were to go outside you could see the skeleton outlines of the new campus looming in the north, obscuring the lights of downtown. Used to be literally just boondocks in the area, and now - all _that_ \- and more. 

“You teach?” Dean asks. He was never exactly sure about what goes on _over there_ , even as he’d spent the past few years serving drinks to a bevy of grad students and something called “Adjunct Professors.”

“I guess you can call it that,” the man replies, his eyes focused on Dean’s hands as the bartender starts to mix the drink (the drink his customer never exactly consented to). “I’m heading up my own lab. Got a startup package big enough for a tech and a couple of post-docs.”

“Uh huh,” Dean mutters, but the man might as well have spoken Farsi for all he knows. The guy seems to take pity on him and gives him a bright smile in return. “I’m Dean, by the way,” Dean suddenly finds himself stating, unbeckoned. He adds the Cynar into the mix, the dark liquid mingling with the ice cubes and the bourbon. The Gran Classico and the barrel aged bitters will come last.

“Castiel Novak,” the man reaches his (probably finely manicured) hand out and Dean has to let go of the mixer to clasp it into his own grip. Castiel’s hand is warm.

“Pleasure to meet you, Professor Novak.”

“It’s Doctor Novak, but no one actually calls me that.”

Their hands are still touching. Dean should probably let go. The guy - the Doctor - the whatever from the University with the “post-docs” - should probably let go, too. Neither of them does for what feels like far too long. Eventually, Dean clears his throat and goes back to mixing the drink.

He pushes the glass with the perfectly square ice cube towering over the dark liquid, like some kind of an iceberg, towards the man and the next part is perfunctory so Dean doesn’t even think as he states, “That’ll be twelve dollars.”

The man blinks and his grin widens as he reaches for his wallet. Sometimes Dean forgets how ridiculous the cost of _everything_ is in the City compared to the rest of the country.

“Yeah, man, sorry,” Dean suddenly blushes and adds, “Welcome to San Francisco!”

Castiel chuckles, “I won’t hold this against you.” His voice is deep and rough, like after a night of drinking old brandy and smoking unfiltered cigarettes, and Dean suddenly wants to know what it would sound like moaning out his name.

“What _would_ you hold against me?” he winks.

***

The University is “metastatic” as Cas puts it (and yeah, Dean’s decided that it’s okay to call him Cas now, now that his tongue is deep diving down Dean’s throat), but his apartment is in the Dogpatch, close to the new campus (where they gave him “lab space”) and Dean is thankful for the short trip there. Dean isn’t sure anymore what the hell they’ve been talking about, only that at some point during Cas’ tirade about the bureaucratic process complicating his ability to purchase an autoclave, Dean stopped listening and started touching.

They ran here in the rain, and even though it was only a few short blocks, their hair is wet and sticking out in every which direction their greedy fingers will push it. The rain heralds fall, and Cas smells of it, somehow, of rain and fallen leaves and the bristle of ozone in the air, and ghosts of future pumpkin spice lattes. Or maybe that’s just his shampoo. He might be new to San Francisco, but he’s definitely not new to what they’re doing, hands deftly disposing of all the multiple layers of Dean’s clothes (oops, there goes the vest from work), winding his tie around his fist, maneuvering Dean as if he was piloting an aircraft, until both of them collapse into a meticulously made-up bed. 

He looks at Dean with a mounting wonder, with each layer he strips off, with each touch of his indecently hot hands, his eyes open wider and his tongue sneaks out to trace over his chapped lower lip before barreling down Dean’s throat again. It’s been a while since Dean’s been with someone who took control of him like this, and the truth is - he loves it. Loves the intensity with which Cas presses down against him, loves the burning coals of his deep sapphire eyes in the darkness of the room, the way he’s looking at Dean is intoxicating, and Dean completely doesn’t deserve it. All that focus, all that seeming adoration.

Cas’ teeth graze along his collar bones, his tongue is long and surprisingly pointy, and Dean feels more like a canvass to be painted on (with Cas’ saliva) than a man being kissed and licked and nipped at. “You taste so good,” Cas says, and Dean doesn’t even know how to respond to that, so he rips the guy’s shirt clean off his shoulders and runs his hands along the broad muscles revealed to him. There’s a scent of rain along Cas’ chest too, despite all the layers protecting him from the weather, but Dean can still detect the phantom of it as he grazes his nose along the sternum, between his well-defined pecs, and finally flicks his tongue against the dark outline of one nipple. He’s vaguely aware that there is a beauty mark next to it as he feels the press and release of Cas’ muscles, pulling Dean closer, so he clamps on tighter with his teeth until he rips a filthy, low moan out of the other man’s throat. Dean’s fingers rake along Cas’ broad shoulders, they claw at his ribs and grip at the holds of his shoulder blades, and they’ve barely even begun. “Hush, it’s okay, I’ll take care of you,” kisses being dropped gently along his earlobe, the feel of Cas’ lips along the sinews of his neck. Dean is feeling rather desperate and flushed with the shame of it, but Cas’ arms are so strong, and his fingers are so long, and they press into the tired tissue of Dean’s lower back, and _oh god_ it feels so good. So right. Never stop, oh god. Oh god! Dean isn’t sure, but he’s probably thinking all of that outloud.

Their bodies are covered in sweat now, rain long forgotten, breath mingling with breath and sinking into warm flesh. Dean is on his knees, braced against a veritable fort of Cas’ pillows. He felt exposed a second ago, but now, with Cas’ naked frame pressed all the way along his back, with the other man’s hands tracing down his chest, fingers pressing bruises into his hips as he grips him tight, tighter, _tighter_ yet, and thrusts deeper, as if he could never get deep enough, not tonight, not the two of them, they could never be deep enough, or hard enough, or long enough. Never enough. No, not the way Cas is looking at Dean, he can sense the heat of his gaze even with his back towards the other man’s face, he can still feel it in the way Cas fucks him, the way his teeth clamp against that tender part of Dean's neck where it meets the shoulder, the way he moans, low and dirty, into Dean’s ear, “Oh god, baby, so good.” And it is, so good. Like in a thunderstorm the heavens just opened up and spat out Cas, and now he’s here, inside Dean, and all Dean wants is to just ask him to never let go.

 _Stay, stay, don’t go_ , Dean thinks. He thinks it as he slips out of bed, as he puts on his own clothes, as he stares down at Cas’ sleeping form. _Don’t go_ , he repeats to himself. But it’s getting late (or rather early), and he’s gotta be at Bobby’s for the morning shift at the garage (because bartending can’t possibly be your only job in the Bay Area). The urge to crawl back into bed and once more inhale the heady scent that is so invariably _Cas_ is overwhelming. The wind rattles the window pane, reminding Dean that the weather apparently hadn’t let up overnight. He leaves without saying goodbye.

***

The Velvet Ramp has been empty for over an hour, and they might as well close early. The thing about the good and gentle dwellers of San Francisco is that the weather scares them easily. And don’t even get Dean started on the communal hysteria that befalls them all when they try to drive in the rain. You’d think the sky was falling by the amount of accidents turning 280 and 101 into two perfectly matched parking lots. One of those parking lots Dean would need to take home to Pacifica, and he’s really praying to Sigalert to let him know when the latest clusterfuck clears so he can leave.

Dean likes living in Pacifica. No pretentious “Velvet Ramps” there - just honest to goodness business names that tell you exactly what you need to know: Nails by Maggie, Chappel by the Sea, Breakfast and Coffee. You can sleep all night in the thick mist to the sound of waves crashing endlessly against the boulders at Rockaway Beach, and drive the Devil’s Slide in the middle of the night for no other reason than because you love hugging the curves, foot riding that brake pedal in a way that will surely cause an undue amount of wear and tear. It’s a good thing they’d built that tunnel, Dean thinks, imagining Devil’s Slide in the rain and shaking that self-destructive thought of his youth away. He’s a grown ass man now, with things to look forward to, like hanging out with Sammy in Palo Alto over the weekend (maybe he can ask him what a “post-doc” is).

It’s been raining for days and it’s beginning to feel a bit like _A Hundred Years of Solitude_ and yeah, Dean reads. Mostly it sucks because now every night just reminds him of the night he spent with Cas, makes him think he should’ve stayed longer, or given the guy his number, or something, _anything_ other than sneaking out in the middle of the night for his walk of shame back to the bar to pick up his Baby. (Another reason he lives in Pacifica - parking space! Just you try parking a ‘67 Impala anywhere in the actual City, except in the old boondocks of Dogpatch.)

There’s that soft pitter-patter against the window. Even though the bar door is closed, it still smells like rain, and Dean thinks perhaps the smell’s all in his head. That happens, right? Olfactory hallucinations? He thinks he read about that at some point. He looks up towards the window and he can swear he can just make out the outline of a handprint against the glass. He comes closer to wipe it off with his dish rag, tracing the lines of the fingers that won’t come off. The print must be from the outside, Dean realizes, as he mechanically continues to trace the shape of the palm with his fingers, placing his own palm flush against the glass, and that feeling overtakes him, the sudden desire to entwine his fingers with the fingers reflected in the glass. He presses his forehead against the window and closes his eyes.

The door swings open, allowing in a gust of cold wind.

“We’re closed,” Dean says, swinging around, and freezing in his tracks. “Cas…”

The man is wearing the same tan trenchcoat. His hair is completely wet and plastered against his forehead. He looks like he’d just come back from some formal function, but his tie is on backwards, and generally he’s just a sodden mess of future dry cleaning bills. Dean lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“If you’re closing early,” Cas says, his butterscotch voice just as low and gravelly as that night they met, “I’d like to buy you a drink.”

Dean walks over to him slowly and wipes the dripping rain drops off Castiel’s confused face (one was perfectly perched at the tip of his aquiline nose) with his dish rag, running it over his hair too, making it stick up in that way that Dean found so endearing earlier. For a few moments they just stare at each other: Cas unblinking and stoic, Dean with a goofy grin on his face, fingers tracing the stubbled outline of Cas’ moist jaw.

“If it’s a drink you want, I know just the place. But we’re going for a drive to Pacifica,” Dean finally finds his voice and tosses the dish rag behind the bar.

“What’s in Pacifica?”

“The ocean,” Dean replies.

“Oh.”

Cas’ kisses taste like October rain, and pumpkin spice lattes, and fallen pine cones, and the fireplace crinkling on a cold winter night, and cherry blossoms in the spring. Cas’ kisses taste like thick Pacifica fog, and the salty air of the stormy sea, and burned out summer grass. Like a thousand tomorrows. Like never having to say goodbye.


End file.
